All this happened, more or less. The death, the resurrection. And I’m not talking about Jesus; we all know that didn’t happen. No, I’m talking about my black cat Michael Myers. Everything started on October 24th, 1871 – yes, I’m that old.
I was strolling through the park, my feet squashing the crunchy autumn leaves that blanketed the ground, when my gift – brilliance – hit me yet again. “It would be swell to have a household cat, wouldn’t it, dear Geraldine?”
“Oh yes, Thomas,” she exclaimed. “It would be swell indeed. What a brilliant idea!”
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The man ran for his life, skipping down the stairs ten steps at a time like a kangaroo running for his life and skipping down the stairs ten steps at a time – except I don’t see why that would ever happen. A bullet skimmed past his head – the man’s, not the kangaroo’s – and buried itself in the wall. Another man followed right behind him, except that man acted nothing like a kangaroo but more like an Australian tiger out hunting kangaroos. Now, you must be telling yourself, Thomas is going to write another clichéd action story with the good guy being chased by kangaroos, uh, I mean, the bad guys. All right, so replace the first man by my brother Will, the bullet with a Siemens SL65 – that’s a cell phone, for all those I-hate-technology people – the second man by my sister Geri, and the kangaroo by, I don’t know, a chimpanzee, and you got a classic weekend afternoon at our house.
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